


House Party

by AeonDelirium



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drugged Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Ramsay is his own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeonDelirium/pseuds/AeonDelirium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people are always teetering on the edge. Just waiting for someone to push them over.</p><p>Written for the asoiaf kinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Party

**Author's Note:**

> Next up on my list of fics I said I'd never write: Modern AU!  
> I tried to include all the bonus points from the [original prompt](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/22142.html?thread=14896254#t14896254). _#s_ denote POV changes.

“Who invited Ramsay anyway?”  
They thought he couldn’t hear them, their voices hushed and with an ugly edge of alcohol and smoke, but of course he could. His smile froze as he listened, fingers tightening around the neck of the beer bottle he was holding until it almost gave with the familiar crunch of breaking glass.  
“I don’t know, but he’s just _so weird._ ”  
“Well, he’s a rape child.”  
Ramsay could almost feel it splintering between his fingers. He’d take the broken bottle and smash their ugly faces in. Teach them not to talk about things they knew nothing about.  
“What do you mean?”  
“His dad raped his mum, and that’s how he was made.”  
“Are you serious?”  
“Yeah, and for the longest time he wasn’t even paying proper support. Till last summer Ramsay got done for knocking some kid’s teeth out, and his mum had a breakdown or something so he had to take him in.”  
The song ended and another one started, a female voice blaring from the speakers, and it swallowed their next words. Not that Ramsay had been listening with particular interest anyway, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when he heard their laughter in between bass beats.

“Oh fuck me.” He looked up when someone plopped down next to him, spilling what might have been vodka and orange juice over a floral patterned cushion. Someone’s mum wasn’t going to be very happy in the morning.  
“I’m bloody wasted.”  
 _Theon Greyjoy._ That one kid everyone loves to hate but can’t do without. Handsome in a trainwreck sort of way. He had lipstick all over his throat and most of his jaw, and Ramsay was not surprised to see his fly undone. He chose not to point it out.  
Several moments passed before Theon seemed to take note of him, squinting at him in the half-dark for a little while until his face lit up at last.  
“You probably don’t remember, but –”  
Ramsay cut him short. “You were in year eight, I was just doing my GCSEs,” he said, grinning, and watched with delight as Theon’s eyes went wide. “You’d just finished drawing a huge squid on the headmaster’s car –”  
“It was a kraken,” Theon interrupted with a slight slur to his words, crossing his legs as he leaned back on the sofa, drink in hand. Ramsay hated interruptions, and there was something about the other boy’s smile that made him want to punch him in the face for reasons he could not be bothered to try and understand. On the other hand Theon was talking to him, _to_ him and not _about_ him, and Ramsay chose to forgive him. Just this once.  
He nodded. “A kraken, then. Anyway, just as you’d finished he came round the corner.” He remembered so very well, scrawny little Theon Greyjoy, sharpie still in hand, all blood draining from his face as he stood there, roadkill waiting to happen. Ramsay could still see that awkward boy in him when he looked closely enough, how his fingers were wrapped around his glass in a way that was supposed to say _cool_ but only said _I don’t know what to do with my hands._ He shrugged.  
“I could tell you couldn’t afford any trouble, so I pointed at some random kids and told him they’d done it.” He barked a laugh. “Their faces though. Gold.”  
Theon’s smile was somewhat uneasy, but he did laugh. “They were my mate’s little brothers, actually. Month of detention each.” He paused for a moment, turning the glass in his hands. “You know, some days I think he’s still mad because I didn’t clear things up. Truth is I really couldn’t afford it. My dad would have killed me.”  
For a moment Ramsay barely dared to move. Something inexplicable was happening, unexpected and strangely arousing at once, and he was scared to break it. Theon Greyjoy was opening up to him.  
“Dads, eh?” he said finally, shaking his head as he put on a wistful smile.  
Theon nodded. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. Might have been a _one-shot-too-many_ kind of hoarse, or perhaps it was a _talking-about-my-dad-makes-me-cry_ kind of hoarse. Either way it was then that Ramsay realised he wanted to fuck him. Not nice and gentle either, no, hard and dirty and most importantly soon.  
“Sorry,” he said and put a hand on his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to get you down.” He wet his lips with his tongue, allowing a mischievous glimmer to creep into his eyes as he leaned closer, just a few inches.  
“Let me make it up to you.”

#

Theon tensed at the contact, more from surprise than anything else. He scanned the scene for potential witnesses (this was, after all, Ramsay _“who invited the weird kid?”_ Snow sitting next to him), but found none. Across the room some big idiot called Grenn was doing a line of what Theon suspected to be sherbet powder, coughing and snorting while his friends cheered him on. Not a single head facing their way. He bit his lip in contemplation, a faint shiver running down his back as Ramsay’s fingers played with the collar of his shirt.  
He’d never done anything like this before, not with another guy. Not that he remembered, at least, though of course he couldn’t have said for sure what he’d gotten up to when he was too wasted to even remember the next day. He liked girls well enough. He liked doing it with them, which was to say he was pretty sure he wasn’t gay. Just, sometimes …  
The breath caught in his throat when a hand slipped in the back pocket of his jeans, groping him. He suddenly remembered how ugly Ramsay was, and how big, how someone had once compared his lips to two worms fucking and Theon had laughed, because it was damn true. But just now he had been kind to him, like he actually genuinely cared. Theon took a deep breath and a big mouthful of vodka from his glass. He had a feeling at least Ramsay was the kind of guy who held you steady as you threw up so you wouldn’t get it all over yourself.  
“I’m not –,” he started, but broke off when Ramsay gave him a squeeze, chuckling.  
“’Course not,” he replied. “Me neither. But I’ve been told I give some pretty decent head.”  
  
They barely had time to go any further before the kitchen door opened, flooding the room with ugly yellow light and the sound of voices.  
A slow tune had just come on, some sappy Adele song by the sounds of it, and it was easy to tell the speakers apart. Theon all but jumped up when he recognised one of them, pulling Ramsay’s hand from his pocket at an uncomfortable angle that had the older boy cursing between his teeth. Theon didn’t care. Instead of an apology he shoved his glass at Ramsay, who grabbed it just in time to prevent the juice from spilling all over his jeans.  
“I’ll be back in a sec,” he muttered, turning away without waiting for a reply. “Just watch my drink for a minute yeah?”  
“Yeah,” Ramsay said when Theon was already out of earshot. “Maybe I’ll do just that.”

-

“You promised you’d come.”  
After the noise and the dim lights of the living room the kitchen felt almost surreal, something taken from a dream … or a nightmare. The small crowd that had been gathered inside had fled the moment Theon came through the door.  
He could tell Robb was furious; his bottom lip quivered and he looked like he’d spent a good part of the evening running his hands through his auburn hair, but for a moment all of Theon’s attention was caught up in the way his hands fidgeted with a cocktail straw. Robb’s hands were always busy doing _something,_ working, worrying, creating, never still. Theon loved that about them, he realised with the sappy sentimentality of the generously inebriated. In fact, and he couldn’t be sure if it was just the alcohol or just the way he still tingled where Ramsay had touched him through his jeans, he realised that he wouldn’t mind at all if they took some of their restlessness out on him.  
“ _Theon!_ ”  
Theon froze. It took a moment for him to find his way back into the scene. He blinked several times, trying to get the image out of his head before his body’s reaction could become his undoing. His choice of jeans just wasn’t cut for hiding a semi while talking to your best mate.  
“I, uh … what?”  
“The fundraiser!” Robb all but threw his arms up at that, looking exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, things are never going to change around here if we don’t change them.” There was genuine hurt in his voice, and though in truth Theon cared little and less about the whole issue – in fact he had never read the emails thoroughly enough to be quite sure what the event was all about – he wanted nothing more than for Robb to _believe_ he did. He smiled, as always when he didn’t know what else to do with his face. His stupid, clumsy, lipstick-stained face.  
“I’m sorry, I meant to text you,” he said finally, and hated himself for the way the words came out all careless and easy. It was a goddamn curse. “My dad needed me in the shop and you know what he’s l –”  
“You don’t even care, do you?” Robb paused for a moment, tensing as if to keep himself from saying something he might regret. His eyes lingered on Theon’s smiling mouth. If life was a movie, Theon thought vaguely, they’d be making out in 3 … 2 … 1 …  
“This is all just a joke to you, isn’t it?”  
His smile froze but would not leave his face, no matter how hard he tried.  
“What? No, listen, I’m –”  
Robb cut him short once more with a dismissive gesture, shaking his head. He looked so tired somehow, so completely _done_ with the situation, with the party, with him, Theon thought he could feel his own heart breaking.  
“Know what, it doesn’t matter. Forget about it.” He breathed deeply, seeking Theon’s eyes for a moment before he finally gave up. He shrugged. “Just enjoy yourself. Have another drink.”  
Theon made half a step forward, fingers curled to loose fists as if to keep them from reaching out. “Robb, I – ”  
His friend raised his hand, and for a moment he was almost certain Robb would slap him in the face, or punch him right between the eyes, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He only sighed softly, and it hurt more than any blow.  
“Just leave it, alright?”  
And with that, Theon was suddenly alone in the kitchen.  
  
It wasn’t long before Ramsay found him, still dutifully holding on to his glass. It looked like he’d even gotten him a top-up in the meantime, to make up for what he had spilled on the sofa. Grey eyes sought his own as Ramsay’s lips twisted into a slick smile, glistening in the light. Theon couldn’t help but wonder if his own smiles ever looked this creepy, though in the end it didn’t matter. Ramsay had brought a drink and one hell of a shoulder to cry on, and so he took the glass from his hand and let himself slump to the floor, his back against the counter.

#

Theon talked. And he drank. And he talked some more, talked the way drunk people talked, mostly about Robb Stark. How they had been friends for ten years, how they were going to start their own business after high school, how sometimes he felt more at home with Robb’s family than his own. How Robb’s hair was the colour of autumn leaves, and autumn always reminded him of that one time he …  
Ramsay found himself tuning out before long, leaving Theon to babble away to his heart’s content.  
His glass had long been drained when finally, he fell silent. And Ramsay knew the time had come, a pleasant shiver running down his spine with the thought.  
“I feel really weird.” Theon seemed not so much troubled as confused, his pupils dilated as he looked around the room in wonder. “Like, everything’s kind of …” He hiccoughed, and missed his mouth when he tried to cover it, damn near slapping himself in the face instead. “I think I’m going to be sick.”  
Ramsay barely suppressed a grin.  
“That’ll be the pills,” he said softly, pulling him to his feet as he rose. The other boy slumped against his chest, unable to fully support his own weight. Helpless. A tingle of arousal reignited somewhere within Ramsay’s stomach, and it grew as Theon looked up at him from those large, uncomprehending eyes.  
“Wha– … no, I didn’t take any pills.” He began to shake his head but stopped almost immediately when the motion seemed to set him off balance, clutching Ramsay’s arms for support. “I didn’t, did I?”  
“You did. I put them in your drink.”  
The truth dawned on Theon’s face, his brain too slow for real alarm. He still seemed to think they were playing a game, which, in a way ... they were. His frown gave way to a lop-sided grin.  
“You … you _spiked_ me.” He gave a snort Ramsay assumed was supposed to be a laugh, and he responded with a chuckle of his own. “You sneaky bastard.”  
Ramsay froze abruptly, struck with a blind pang of rage like a fist to the face. He’d heard this one too many times over. Decidedly too many. His grip tightened around Theon’s arms until the younger boy gave a surprised gasp of pain, squirming in his arms but unable to free himself. He shuddered when Ramsay brought his lips close to his ear, close enough for their warmth to mingle. Theon’s skin smelled of salt and alcohol and that revolting aftershave he thought the girls all loved. He trembled, and it was not only the drugs.  
Slowly, very slowly the boy seemed to get a grasp of what was about to go down. _Good._ Ramsay snarled.  
“Do not ever call me that again.” A low whine rose from Theon’s throat, and it took all the restraint he could muster not to squeeze it out of him, his rage bringing the very blood in his veins to a boil.  
“I’ll rip your fucking tongue out if you do.”

#

Ramsay led him from the kitchen, through the living room, down the hallway and up the stairs without even the slightest hint of trouble.  
“Gee, he’s not looking well.” It wasn’t an expression of genuine worry, but rather amusement, a careless remark about a careless boy. No one ever really worried about him but Asha, and Asha wasn’t around. _I just want a good time tonight,_ he’d said to her and left her standing in the doorway, and now the words rang through his head, putting a bitter taste in his mouth that mingled with bile. _I don’t need a babysitter._  
Ramsay made a dismissive gesture, his other arm tightening around Theon’s shoulders as he pulled him past the group.  
“I’ll get him to the bathroom just in case,” he said, and appeared infinitely pleased with the sniggering and sounds of approval the comment earned him. He probably didn’t get that sort of treatment often.  
“If I had a penny for every time I’ve seen him get completely shitfaced …”  
“You’d end up with about thirty p.”  
“Oh shut up.”  
And that was the last he heard of them. The only people who might have stopped this.  
  
And now it was happening, Theon thought with a kind of strange, numb detachment as he watched his hands push against Ramsay’s chest, watched his fingers grab a handful of his hoodie before they were swatted away, this was really happening, _I am getting raped._ Suddenly they were alone, and another door closed behind them, and the world toppled over as he fell. His head started to spin, and he couldn’t have said if it was the pills or just Ramsay’s hand between his legs, groping him through his jeans.  
  
Now he was on his back, beneath him a pile of coats and parkas and scarves, among them his own, among them _Robb’s,_ and Ramsay was on top of him, and his hands everywhere.  
He’d never thought this would happen, not to him. He’d put on such a good show, what with all the girls, so many of them sometimes he’d wondered if he would still remember all their names when he was old and grey. He could have happily fooled himself into believing he actually enjoyed all the meaningless sex, that it wasn’t just some game you played because that was the way things were, because you were bored or just because you had an itch to scratch.  
Then Robb’s face emerged from the grimy, drugged fog of his subconscious and he shuddered, imagining the door opening, his silhouette against the light of the corridor. Would he help him if he knew? Perhaps he’d just turn around and walk away. _He’d think I want this,_ Theon thought, nauseated, and tried once more to sit up, but Ramsay was too strong and too heavy, crushing him beneath his weight. _He saw the way I looked at him in the kitchen._

#

Theon was like putty in Ramsay’s hands, more of a very life-like blow-up doll than a real challenge, but it was all in his face and the sounds he made, _wanting_ to struggle but not being able to, trembling and whimpering beneath his touch. Playing hard to get. The little slut. It had Ramsay breathing heavily before he’d even unbuckled his own belt, biting his lips as he tried to hold back, but _fuck_ was it hard. He didn’t want to finish too soon, not before the main event.  
He began to peel the jeans from Theon’s legs, then his boxers. What he found beneath summoned a grin to his face, giving him the air of a slavering dog as he feasted his eyes on the helpless body sprawled across the bed.  
  
The phone almost slipped from his sweat-slick hands when he pulled it from his pocket, squinting in the sudden brightness when the screen lit up, illuminating his face in icy blue.  
The fake shutter sound was almost deafening in the muffled silence of the small room. Ramsay grinned when the image appeared.  
“I think I’ve found my new wallpaper.” Theon whimpered and made a choked sound that might have been a word or a wordless plea, or a last warning before he emptied the contents of his stomach all over the bed, it didn’t matter. Ramsay didn’t mind when things got a bit dirty. It only made them feel more real.  
  
Almost an afterthought, he wiped his fingertips on his hoodie for better friction and flicked through a couple of folders on his phone, past dozens of pictures, his smile widening. Of course it was dangerous. Of course it was thoughtless, to a degree. Of course it was risky. But that was where the fun was at. And much like a certain Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay just _loved_ to show off.  
“Look.” He propped himself up beside Theon, turning the screen toward him so he could see. _If_ he could see. His response was sluggish, Ramsay noted with some concern, his pupils taking far too long to adjust to the light, and he whimpered, clearly in pain. Ramsay slid his finger across the screen.  
“Look, there. That’s Jez.” He licked his lips, leaning against the headboard next to Theon so they could both see. “Pretty, isn’t she? You’d have liked her … and her face wasn’t bad either.” He laughed quietly.  
Another flick of his finger, another picture. Another girl, tangled hair, naked skin, smudged make-up. His spine tingled with the memory of her, her smell, her voice. She had made the most amusing sounds. For a fleeting moment he wondered how she was doing now, where she lived, if she’d gotten a grip. Probably not. They never did.  
Another picture. A face, this time. A complexion of rosy skin and bruises. That face. Ramsay’s breath caught in his throat, time freezing for a moment before he yanked the phone away, almost throwing it across the bed when his grip slipped. But Theon had already seen. _Fuck._  
“Now listen, you little shit,” Ramsay said through his teeth, grabbing his collar and pulling his dead weight from the bed. He could hear the fear in his own voice and could have kicked himself for it. He couldn’t lose it now. This was some serious end-of-world scenario mess-up even his dad wouldn’t be able to fix if he let it slip through his fingers.  
“By the time you’ve sobered up enough to go talk to the cops they won’t find any trace of the phone or the photos. What they will find is a bunch of witnesses who saw you get pissed as fuck … and _these_ photos on _your_ phone.”

#

Everything was spinning. The room, the bed, Ramsay, his own body; for all he knew his brain might be doing ring-a-ring-o’-roses in his skull.  
He wasn’t exactly sure what Ramsay was on about, hadn’t even seen anything on the screen because it was just too bright, he’d felt sick just trying to look at it. But there was a dark, sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, a vague idea like a cellar door in a horror movie, a door best left unopened.  
Reality passed him by in waves of bruising touches and bursts of light as he tried to piece it all together.  
He remembered news reports about a missing girl, and his entire body tensed as a part of him recoiled, unwilling to pursue this chain of thought and all it implied, not now, not with Ramsay’s lips on his throat, leaving a cold wet trail down to the collar of his t-shirt and beyond.  
They’d given up searching for her shortly after Mayor Stark had died, passing the office on to Roose Bolton, a quiet, clever man who knew how to play his cards. A man who always got what he wanted. Ramsay’s dad.  
A hoarse sound of mixed disgust and hysteria rose from some place inside him when he felt Ramsay’s mouth between his legs just as the realisation began to sink in.  
 _He killed her. He fucking killed her._  
The light of the camera was even colder than the screen had been, and brighter too, more focused, boring its way clean through his skull and into his brain as Ramsay pointed it at him, at his face, and his own voice added to the noise of the fake shutter sound as it reverberated in his eardrums.  
Ramsay’s lips met his own, soft and moist and disgustingly warm. For a moment he struggled, but then fear and sickness got the better of him, and he let it all go, his body seeming to spread into a puddle of weak, malleable flesh as Ramsay’s tongue slid inside his mouth.  
  
#  
  
“ _Nonononono_ –”  
Ramsay listened to the pathetic sound for a moment when he pulled back, smiling as he wondered if Theon was even aware of saying it out loud. Before long he’d heard enough and shut him up again with his tongue down his throat, tasting vodka and cheap cider. His hand sneaked back between his legs and found him disappointingly unexcited, possibly because of the drugs. _Probably_ because of the drugs. He knew Theon wanted it, really, he’d seen and felt it earlier, on the couch. He’d have let him have him without any tricks if it hadn’t been for that bloody faggot Robb Stark with his pretty boy pout and his ginger curls. And now he’d have to make do.  
“I was going to be gentle with you, you know,” he said against Theon’s lips, giving him a good tight squeeze as they broke apart, chuckling when he felt the younger man shudder against him. “Or at least gentler than I was with her,” he added, and then he grabbed his thighs and pushed them apart. It was almost too easy, and almost enough to send him over the edge. Theon’s eyes went wide though they remained unfocused, and he shook his head. Ramsay mimicked the movement with a playful pout about his lips. “But you wouldn’t have it. You did this to yourself.”  
They came face to face once more as his body covered Theon’s, swallowing him whole in a vice-like embrace, quickened breaths mingling in the stuffy air. Every hair on Ramsay’s body stood on end as he finally pressed against him. Theon’s lips moved soundlessly, and he kissed them again, almost gentle this time, as he began to push into him. The other body yielded to his intrusion, weak and way too hot to be healthy. It was everything he had hoped it would be. Arousal flooded through him like a shockwave and he groaned, gathering Theon in his arms.  
“You might as well make the most of it.”

#

It hurt. It hurt so bad he could not even scream, all the pain, the fear, the drugged haziness condensed to a choked sound at the back of his throat, occasionally breaking into a pitched whimper.  
“Fuck,” he managed, and a sob slipped out after the word as he felt Ramsay push even deeper into him, panting with sick, feral pleasure.  
When he had thought about sex with Robb this was not what he had imagined. This didn’t feel good. It fucking hurt. It felt _wrong._ There was no way this was how it was supposed to be. He desperately hoped the wetness he felt was not blood, but he didn’t even want to think about what else it might be, didn’t even have the mental capacity to pursue this chain of thought.  
Ramsay’s hands were under his shirt then, and in his hair, they were underneath him and around him and between his legs, moving so fast they were just a hot, fleshy blur upon his skin as everything began to slip. Theon made another feeble attempt to push him away, but his fingers found only empty air, fumbling in the space between them as his vision swam and distorted, until he thought he was being fucked by a ghost. Until the burning pain inside him felt like part of his system, and his head fell back with an exhausted sigh, bumping against the wall. He tasted blood and didn’t care.  
  
Perhaps this was what he deserved, karma or some other sort of cosmic payback for being the insufferable little shit he knew he was, deep in his heart. He thought of all the people he’d disappointed, and how they would all say he deserved this. He just knew they would. They’d say he'd had it coming a long way. And perhaps they were right. When he closed his eyes he could almost see his dad’s face. _Why didn’t you fight back?_ he’d say, and mean it. _A grown man getting raped like a little girl?_ Asha might defend him for a while, perhaps she’d even believe him at first, but of course she’d wonder. She probably knew about Robb, and she knew her little brother’s penchant for ill-considered adventures, and of course she knew about the sex. Everyone knew about the sex, because he was boasting about it whenever the goddamn opportunity arose. And the photos …  
 _No one can ever know,_ Theon thought in a moment of blood-curdling lucidity, and then Ramsay’s breath was a thunderstorm in his ear as he pressed their bodies together.  
“That’s a good boy,” he said, his voice a low growl that seemed to reverberate through the small room as though it were a concert hall. A sweaty hand came to rest on Theon’s cheek, forcing him to look into his eyes for a sick parody of what Hollywood likes to call _love-making_. “Just keep quiet and take it.”  
And so he did. His tears were so hot he thought his eyes were melting, and perhaps they were, his vision so dim and blurred he wasn’t sure if Ramsay’s face could really be this ugly as it rocked in and out of sight, if his teeth could really be this sharp or if it was just an image his drugged mind fabricated.

The pain lessened after a while as wave upon wave of tiredness washed over him, every breath a little fainter, reality drifting away as he sank, as he drowned. He still didn’t know what the bastard had put in his drink, but it didn’t matter. If he was lucky he’d have overdosed and die. If he wasn’t, he’d file tonight as a lesson he’d never forget, and crawl back home and hope the ground would open up and swallow him before anyone asked any questions. If anyone even cared. No one might even notice if he simply disappeared. Roose Bolton would bribe a few cops and tweak a few rules and he would be nothing but a hazy memory, that one guy who banged all the chicks and drank more than he could handle. Probably choked on his own puke. _Theon Greyjoy, a eulogy._  
 _This is the best this fucked-up world has in store for me,_ he thought suddenly, clinging to the notion before unconsciousness could wrench it away from him. Ramsay kissed him again, working himself against his body with more passion than anyone had shown him in some time. If he hadn’t been drugged, crushed and in blinding agony, Theon might have laughed at how sick it all was.  
 _If I get out of this alive this is just how it’s fucking meant to be._  
  
He shuddered when Ramsay came, only vaguely aware of the obscenities pouring from the other man’s mouth, calling him a slut among other things as he pressed him deeper into the pile of coats. But he was aware of the burst of warmth inside him, and the way it seemed to scorch him from within, feeling an awful lot like _sealing the deal._ A part of him wished he’d pass out already, while another, a mean little voice at the back of his wobbly mind, told him to savour it. _You deserve this. Every last beautiful bit of it._  
“You’re mine now, Theon Greyjoy,” Ramsay said softly into his ear after the last wave had passed, his softening cock still lodged inside him, and then his lips were on his cheek, and Theon wanted to retch but didn’t even have it in him to keep his eyes open any longer. He felt the lips curl into a smile as the last bit of fight seeped out of him together with Ramsay’s come.  
“I’ll pick you up Monday after school.”


End file.
